


The Cop and The Drunk

by ghettoassenglishman



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Cop!Mickey, Drunk!Ian, Drunkenness, Halloween, Hangover, Humor, Ian is adorable ok, M/M, Prompt Fic, probably ooc but i don't care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-31
Updated: 2015-10-31
Packaged: 2018-04-29 02:08:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5112401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghettoassenglishman/pseuds/ghettoassenglishman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt ; Mickey is a cop. Ian is drunk and tries hitting on him</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Cop and The Drunk

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! Sorry I haven't been around in ageeeeeees but something happened and I couldn't come on here and update anything, and I had literally no motivation to write. But it's okay at the moment, so I should be getting back to writing up my prompts!!! sorry for my non-existence!
> 
> Hope you like this! (I spiced It with a little Halloween twist)

“Officer! Hey,  _ you!  _ Officer!” 

Mickey closed his eyed and took a deep breath. This was why he enjoyed legally having a gun stashed in his belt. This was why he liked his badge that earned his rank of an authority figure. This was way he enjoyed the night shift – well, he used to until now.  _ This  _ was why, at-least one day a week, he thought about quitting the force completely. 

This  _ was  _ why Mickey really fucking hated Halloween. 

Mentally counting to five, Mickey leaned against his squad car, wishing that Karl had been bothered to take his patrol shift for the night. He lit up his smoke as he looked towards the idiot calling out to him from across the street. From a distance, the guy looked like normal, fucked-up, teenager that was unable to handle a couple of shots of tequila, due to a crowded amount of peer pressure. He was wearing slightly baggy black-jeans, a rumpled, stained white shirt, tussled red-hair (that God forbid would stop traffic it was that fucking bright) and an irritating lob-sided grin. In his hand he held – or tried hopelessly – a glass filled with a murky looking liquid, that missed his mouth whenever he tipped it back. 

Mickey had been plastered in his life; but  _ this guy  _ was totally out of it. 

“For fuck sakes.” Mickey mumbles to himself as he exhales a cloud of smoke. He clears his throat and puts on his  _ I'm a cop, you must follow the fucking law  _ voice. “Move along, sir.” He made a shooing motion – his insides urging to put up a middle finger and yell  _ fuck off - _ as if the guy was a scurrying stray cat. When the idiot doesn't move, his voice ups a couple of notches. “Hey, if you need a lift home get one of your friends to call you one. Or, you know, go back to your shit party.” 

The ginger-idiot starts cheering, “Party! Party!” He raises his near-empty glass before bringing it to his lips and chugging half of it down, dripping half of it down his shirt. Then, to Mickey's dismay, the guy starts walking across the street. 

Great. 

Mickey flicks his smoke, stubbing it out in the road. He raises his hand, “Sir -”  _ Will you fuck the fuck off.  _

“Woah.” The idiots eyes widen, his voice getting louder. “You're like.... super,  _ super  _ hot in that.” 

Mickey raised his eyebrows.  _ What the actual fuck?  _ Despite feeling a little comfortable with the guy openly expressing his feelings, Mickey feels a light blush creep up the back of his neck and spread to his cheeks. Luckily, this idiot was too drunk to even notice a slight change in his complexion. To be honest, the idiot wasn't that bad looking up close. (Well, he was kinda  _ really  _ fucking hot upon closer inspection.) Mickey even found himself getting a little jealous of the idiots sharp cheekbones, plump pink lips, and bright freckles splattered against his cheeks. Out of all of that, Mickey found himself staring at the noticeable cat ears resting in the idiots messy hair. He had to punch himself mentally for even wanting to thread his fingers through the strangers knotted locks. 

“ _ Like... _ so hot.” The guy repeated himself, stepping closer a little making him slosh his drink. 

Mickey scowled. This kid was just fucking irritating now. “Sir, can you please -” 

For a moment, the idiot squints his eyes, as if he's looking for the answers of the unknown. (Nope, he's just checking Mickey out. Yup.) He sways, voice slurred. “Like, how did you  _ even –  _ that costume is  _ so  _ good. Your -” The idiot trailed off, waving his hands around to try indicate the shape of Mickey's body, which was extremely far off what his body was actually like. 

This kid had it bad. 

Mickey wanted to leave, like now, so he rambles off his normal routine towards a drunk in the middle of the night. “Sir, how much you had to drink tonight, huh?” Tiredly, Mickey lifts his flash-light from his belt, flickering it a couple of times into the idiots eyes. “Yeah, as I expected. You're pretty fucked, kid.” 

The idiot tries his hardest to wave off the bright light. In a way it was cute as-well as amusing. The kid sulks, actually  _ sulks,  _ like a toddler. “Don't be like  _ that,  _ officer.” He steps closer to Mickey, giggling as he watched him step further away. “I just wanted to know where you got this....” he raises his hands dramatically, “ _...costume.”  _

“Well,  _ sir,”  _ Mickey starts, irritated. “I got this  _ costume  _ from my locker.” He pinches the bridge of his nose at the hazy, confused glare that he got in result. He slaps his hand on the hood of his squad car, pursing his lips. “If you haven't noticed, which you haven't, I'm  _ actually  _ a cop.” 

God, this was going to be a long night. 

The red head's jaw dropped. “ _ What?”  _ He nearly drops his drink. “Really?!” 

Mickey grits his teeth. If only he could arrest people for being so fucking  _ annoying.  _ “Yes.” 

“No  _ waaaaay.” _

This idiot was getting even worse. Mickey sighs, “I just said that I was.”

Giggling, the red head lets a grin crack against his cheeks. “You can't be! You're  _ way  _ too hot to be a cop! I mean, look at those-” He goes to grab Mickey's biceps but instead stumbles against the sharp reflex of Mickey's hand against his chest. 

Despite the idiot getting up and close, trying to grab him, Mickey let a small smile slip. It wasn't that often that a somewhat  _ hot  _ drunk stumbled down the streets of Chicago, especially on a night like Halloween. Usually, Mickey would have to chase Frank Gallagher around each block, trying to find him for the  _ third  _ fucking time in the same night. Sometimes, Mickey would get enjoyment out of catching dealers and robbers, mainly for the fact that  _ he  _ used to be one and he could finally chase down those idiots who cut him short, and  _ legally  _ too. 

It wasn't like many people would call Mickey  _ hot –  _ he didn't really go out much unless it was inside of his patrol car, or the café on the end of the block. The guys in the club weren't exactly  _ sweet  _ material either. Sure, this idiot was drunk beyond his own expectations, but he did look around Mickey's age under the light of the lamppost, and he was somewhat  _ adorable  _ when he'd pout his bottom lip and try his hardest to stand in the same spot. 

“Just go home, you idiot.” Mickey encourages. He placed his hand on the guy's shoulder, immediately regretting it when he felt a sudden calmness rush through him. He shakes it off. “I think you've had too much shit to drink tonight. Can you actually  _ get  _ home?” 

The idiot sways a little before yelling, “Ah, No!” He looked around, scanning each house, shaking his head at each glance. Mickey sighs. The red head then starts giggling, hiding his face behind the back of his free hand. “I … I actually  _ know  _ where my house is.  _ But,  _ who said I was leaving?” He leans in a little, whispering, “I can't leave a hot cop out here on his  _ own,  _ what kind of gentleman would I be then?”

Mickey mentally face-palms. “Fucking hell-” 

Abruptly, the guy grabs hold of Mickey's arm, shaking it furiously. “Officer. Officer. You've got to arrest me. I... I …  _ need  _ you to arrest me.” 

Fuck no. Mickey was not having this idiot in the back of his car, no matter how hot, or amusing,  _ or  _ how adorable he might be with a pouty lip. No one was throwing up in the back of the squad car. Even if they did, there was no room back at the jail; the place was already full and it wasn't even twelve yet. Anyway, this tool was harmless; he couldn't even hurt a fly. There was no chance in hell that Mickey would arrest him. 

Even if he did wonder what the idiot would look like bent over his police car. 

“You  _ know,”  _ The guy stepped up into Mickey's space, tapping his chest lightly. Mickey could smell the mixture of beers and spirits on the guys breath, it wasn't pleasant. The red-head started to whisper again – hardly a whisper, if Mickey was being honest – and giggled under his breath, “I've been a bad,  _ bad  _ boy. You should really arrest me, Mr. Hot. Officer.” 

Mickey grabs the guy's hands, pushing him away from his chest. “Right, enough. Fuck off.” He knows he shouldn't use that language on patrol, but it wasn't like this kid wasn't enjoying it, nor would he complain about it. “Go home before you hurt yourself. I ain't arresting you, I need an actual  _ reason  _ for that, and being an irritating drunk-head isn't going to cut it.” 

The red head blinked, wide eyed. “A reason? Like, Like what?” 

Mickey snorts, “If you throw a punch at me then I'll bend you over that car.” 

Shit. It didn't mean to come across that way. Fuck. 

Without precaution, Mickey heard the crack of his nose before he felt it. It took a while to realise that he was tumbling backwards into the door of his car, body forced by the fist of the drunk that looked as harmless as a newborn. It took a while before his vision started to clear up and he stared down in disbelief at the blood caking his hands, which had dripped from his nose. 

_ That fucker.  _ Mickey feels himself raging. “What the fuck do you think you're doing?!” 

The idiot – who looked smug now, fucking dick – jumped on the spot. “Can you arrest me now?” 

Mickey understood now. If it wasn't for his rage and bleeding nose, he'd find it funny. Instead, he grabs the guy by his arms and cuffs them behind his back. “Yes, I'm fucking arresting you.” 

The red head bends over the front of the police cruiser. “Fuck Yes! Arrested by the hot cop!” 

***

Ian shot awake at the monstrous sounds of metal hitting against metal. His head was pounding and his fist felt a little swollen.  _ What the fuck happened last night?  _

_ Why the fuck was he in a cell?!  _

“Fuck. Fuck Fuck.” He muttered to himself, placing his head in his hands. He was lying in a jail cell, his mouth dry as concrete. He fumbled to grab the set of cat ears off of his head, his head still a little light and still a little intoxicated. 

He hears the loud bang again. “Oh my  _ god.”  _ he groans. 

“Rise and fucking shine, Cinderella!” 

Ian peered blurredly through the bars. There was a cop standing there, his uniform stained, his nose bloody below the nostrils. He looked as over-joyed as Ian felt. In his hand he had a metal bar that he continued to hit against the cell bars. 

Typically, Ian just wanted to curl up and die. 

The banging stopped. “So, Mr -” The cop started, his voice agitated as he clambered through, what Ian noticed, was his own wallet. “Mr Ian Gallagher. Shit, you're Frank's kid?” The guy actually looked generally surprised at that fact. 

Ian sat up, rubbing his eyes. “Not by choice.” 

The cop lets out a laugh. “I should have known.” 

Suddenly it dawns on Ian.  _ Why the hell was he even in here?  _ He glances back at the cop, the bloody nose, the stained uniform, and racks his brain for memories. Shit. “Did I -” He goes to ask but the cop immediately cuts in. 

“I'm Officer Milkovich. You broke my nose last night.” 

Ian's eyes nearly popped out of his head. Fuck. “Shit.. I'm -” 

Even through the copper routine, the bloody nose, the cop wasn't that bad looking. Hell, Ian even thought the guy was  _ too  _ hot to be a cop. (Wait, had he said that before?) 

“Yeah,” Mickey drawls from behind the cell bars. “It fucking hurt, too. You owe me, Gallagher.” 

Ian raises his eyebrow. How do you  _ owe  _ a cop? “Owe you?” 

Mickey nods his head. A little nice didn't hurt once in a while; plus the  _ idiot  _ was even cuter when sober. “Yeah, you owe me  _ a lot  _ actually.” To Ian's shock, Mickey pulls out a key and unlocks the cell door, waving a hand for his exit. 

Rubbing his head, Ian asks lowly. “You know a good hangover cure,  _ which  _ will erase all hideous memories that involve being really drunk and trying to get myself arrested?” 

With a smile, Mickey pockets the keys and nods with a hum. “I do know a good place.”

Ian raises his brow.  _ Was the cop hitting on him? The same cop that he had punched in the nose, and broke it, just a couple of hours earlier?  _ “Is that an invitation?” He asks, a little scared that he was still drunk and probably hallucinating the whole thing. 

He wouldn't be surprised if he was still laying in the cell. 

Before Mickey heads into the back room to place all of his gear into his locker, finally getting off his shift that lasted  _ all  _ night because of stupid paperwork caused by a  _ certain  _ someone, he yells back to Ian. “If you bust up my fucking nose again, Gallagher, I'm going to bend you over the hood of my car.” 

Shit. Obviously Mickey can't help himself.

Saluting, with a wink, Ian grins, “You got it,  _ Officer. _ ” 


End file.
